


Post Case Anomaly

by RubyGem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Pre-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 11:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13856985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyGem/pseuds/RubyGem
Summary: A post case Sherlock, John and Greg have started to regularly celebrate at a local pub (begrudgingly in Sherlock's case if he's to be believed). However this time is slightly different and brings an interesting character into Sherlock's life.





	1. Pub Post Case

**Author's Note:**

> Italics=internal thoughts of characters.

The three men make their way towards what looks like a tube station, semi-circular awning over the door but without even one red, white and blue sign. Their heads and shoulders were hunched against the bitter chill of the strong gusts, whipping along the wind tunnel that is the Marylebone road. Two men head the trio. The one to the left is wearing a functional, charcoal, North Face jacket that must be owned by hundreds if not thousands of men across London. A simple ribbed beany hat in a charcoal two shades darker is pulled down firmly on his head and a heather striped scarf is wrapped around his neck.

The man to the right is shorter in stature. His jacket a black wax one with plenty of external pockets and a corduroy collar. His normal walk is straight-backed but the lack of scarf to protect his exposed neck from the biting wind has caused his gait to change as he curls into himself.

Taking up the rear, a good few paces behind, the tallest of the men walks. His shoulders are hunched but not to the extreme of his shortest friend due to the protection afforded him by the blue cashmere scarf and the upturned collar of his tailored charcoal wool coat. The wind is however lashing the top of his calves with the tail of the coat and the curls of dark hair on his head are being whipped around in a maelstrom.

All are glad to be out of the cold and into the warmth as the pub doors close behind them. Some are better at hiding it than others.

“Why must we do this again?” hisses the tallest, whilst his fingers try to tame the somewhat matted and definitely dishevelled curls on his head, in the glass of a nearby framed tube poster _. A reproduction print, not an original from the 30’s_. Sherlock had ascertained in a split second before he fixed all his attention on trying to sort out his hair.

“ ’Cause it’s a tradition now init’ “ said Greg taking his hat off and removing the heather scarf.   “We’ve got to celebrate a case finished. Scumbag in prison with a full confession and for once neither of you were kidnapped, fell in a river, fell through a rotten floor, got poisoned by a dominatrix or got mauled by a rabid dog.”

“I’ll give you all the others, but to be fair mate neither of us has been mauled by a dog.” Said John whilst rubbing his hand together to try and warm them a little.

“Oh he has, just was a bit before your time.”

“Brilliant, I do love a story with my pint, curry and film.”

“Alright, normal division of labour then we’ll do the grunt work while Sherlock goes and scares all the other patrons out of the ‘snug’. I can tell you the story of when Sherlock was attacked by a dog and had to have a rabies jab in his arse while we choose what film to educate Sherlock in popular culture with.”

“At least having to spend 2 hours in A&E meant I didn’t have to participate in useless social activities designed to entertain the mindless masses. Also I haven’t failed to remember Lestrade that you called me in on that case, that turned out to only be a two.” The other two have started to walk away toward the bar, so Sherlock has to raise his voice “I had my arse molested for a two and I hold you fully responsible.”

Lestrade’s reaction is to drop his head slightly but continue through the crowd to the bar. John however turns and while taking a few steps backwards responds with a smile on his face that causes his eyes to crinkle and stretches his lips thin. “I didn’t realise that was the sort of kinky stuff Greg was into.”

Sherlocks nonplussed face as he reviews what he had said only makes John laugh harder when having alit on it he swiftly turns and stalks off to get their table.

***<<<x>>>***

As he walks towards the ‘snug’ as the management laughingly call it he draws a small laminated slip from one of the pockets of his Belstaff. The snug is a small room slightly bigger than your average living room. It contains a TV mounted to the right of the back wall. A small round table with three bar stools around it stands in the opposite corner and at each corner against the opposite wall are comfortable corner booths and square tables big enough to seat four comfortably.

The doorway to the room is a narrow arch without a door but either side of it are large windows allowing light in. Attached to the window on the right side is a A4 sign reading.

PRIVATE FUNCTION ROOM

Available for hire

He peels off the backing on a couple of adhesive dots, the type that attach free samples in magazines, that he had also stashed in his pocket. He attaches these to the back of the laminated strip and sticks them to the original sign, covering up ‘Available for hire’ with ‘RESERVED’.

Johns rotation of girlfriends did have an advantage. While checking out the primary school teachers flat, whilst she was on a date with John, he had borrowed her laminator for the reserved sign. Then fortuitously the next one….. _What was she? Oh yes, the criminal psychologist. She hadn’t lasted long_. She was one of those crafty people, made cards and whatnot. He pilfered the adhesive dots from the craft box on her kitchen table.

Walking through the door, his left hand grasps an abandoned glass with an inch of lager remaining. A glance around the room, while pretending to look at the tube themed posters and photos on the wall allows him to take stock of the rooms occupants. To the left are two women, both only had a centimetre or so of wine left in their glass.

 _Difficult to get a precise measurement due to the curvature of the glass and not being level with it, to read the meniscus of the contents accurately_. _Need to update data on this, relevant in reviewing scenes in possible poisonings._

 _First woman is dressed casually; russet cowl neck jumper dress, leggings and fur lined winter boots. Makeup natural but impeccably done, hair up in a pony tail, 4 cm or so of henna at the tips, not balayage but the result of letting it grow out naturally. A variety of silver bracelets on her wrists, most hammered, not mass produced. Artistic then. Her hair demonstrates she isn’t too bothered about her personal appearance. Nails trimmed close, so works with her hands, not an office job. Unlike her friend, clearly just come from work_.

_Second woman is twenty-five, give or take a year, so approximately five years younger than her friend. Hair highlighted and cut two days ago and looking at the pattern of re-colouring has had her hair done every six weeks like clockwork. Wearing less makeup than her friend, but it’s far more obvious that she is wearing it. The foundation is one,.. no two shades too dark, clearly purchased while on offer some months back, when she still had a tan from her holidays. The skirt suit and crisp white shirt she’s wearing is off the rack, higher bracket of the high street which puts her profession in the lower bands of something serious and professional. More likely legal over civil service, but it could be either. The fact that she is on the TFL website, has clearly come straight from work and that they have both almost finished their drinks indicates that they will be leaving soon so, not my main priority._

He then turned his attention to the only other group in the room. _Three men, all in their 30’s. Looking at their hands indicates that two are married, one recently the other for at least 5 years, the last of the trio had been single for some time. All city professionals: Risk Analyst, Sports Journalist and an accountant…_ He continued to deduce them while faking interest in the mishmash of tube associated posters, photos and other artefacts that covered the walls.

While seeming engrossed in looking at the walls, he stumbled as he drew level with the table. The accountant was the only one that noticed. Placing his glass on the edge of their table with an apologetic smile at him he leant down to tie his shoelace. Seconds later he is up, phone already at his ear as he picks the glass back up and wanders away a little, back too pretending to be looking at the pictures on the wall.

“Where are you mate?” he asked in a baritone loud enough for the table to hear him but not so that it was obviously meant for them.

“Nah, the others are getting the drinks in. How far out are you?”

“Alright, well if you’re not here in the next half hour we’re starting a tab with your credit card details.”

 

Glancing at the phone he unlocks it and goes straight to the gallery. Skimming through the photos, thumb moving quickly through the different albums until it stills just as suddenly as the small smirk on his face appears and then disappears. He turns making his way back to the table with a quick glance to the main room.

 

This time it is the phone he puts on the table. Sliding it over towards the man in the centre of the booth. He holds one finger out pointing at it. “He’s sleeping with your wife.”

“Sorry who are y….” His words dried up as he looks at the phone.

He looks back up the still pointing finger and follows it as until it stops to point at his friend sitting next to him. “His phone.” The baritone clearly enunciates in a flat tone.

Silence falls for maybe two seconds before all hell brakes loose. “You Bastard!”

 

By the time Greg and John arrive in the room the risk analyst and the sports journalist have fallen out of the booth and are on the ground in an undignified writhing pile. The consulting detective is looking on calmly, hands loosely held behind his back.

Greg walks calmly to the corner table with two pints, with the air of a man that experiences this sort of occurrence often. He is followed by John with his own pint and a DVD case for that nights viewing. When all of these are safely on the table away from the threat of spillage. Greg and John piled in prising them away from each other.

 

“Right Gents. I’m a bloody DI for the MET and if you don’t want to spend the night in a cell I suggest you take some time to cool your heads in a place far away from here.”

The accountant friend who up until this time had sat meekly in the booth jumped into action “Paul come on let’s get out of here.” Greg released the man he’s holding and gives him a little push towards his friend and watches the cheated-on man be dragged away. The remaining man grabs his coat and phone and follows with a glare at Sherlock.

 

Greg then dusts his hands off before bringing his and Sherlock’s pints over to their booth. John is also on the way back when something Sherlock hadn’t factored in on occurs. “John?”

_The blond knows John, how? Too young to be childhood friend, too pretty to be an old girlfriend. Don’t know each other well, or John would have recognised her instantly and although he now recognises her he is still trying to recall her…._

“Jenny?”  

_Oh, he’s done it. Friendly not too personal, but he likes her, isn’t just putting on polite face. Interesting. Puffed back up into military stance, so he associates her with army, but she is not a soldier. He desperately wants to make a good impression, involved with his discharge from the army then._

 

“This is Greg and Sherlock. Guys this is Jenny. She was part of the team of people who helped get me set up when I left the army.”

John turns back to her “Still working in legal aid?”

“Not so much, do the odd bit now and then for Help the Hero’s but I’ve got a job as a paralegal at Boston & Lynch. This is my friend Emily.”

“Nice to meet you Emily.”

“And you.”

“Let me get you two another drink, least I can do for all the help you gave me.”

***<<<x>>>***

 

Sherlock had zoned out. If some one had come in wielding a machete he would still act instantly but he had effectively muted the inconsequential conversation occurring around him. The five of them were all squashed into the booth now, and as Sherlock had sat down first, he now found himself stuck in the middle with no means of escape.

“So, I watched you pickpocket that bloke earlier, break into his phone and I assume find a compromising picture of his friend’s wife. Do you always do that to get a table?” asked Emily of the detective sitting next to her who had yet to say anything since they all sat down.

_She noticed. Interesting._

“Yes” he said face appearing aloof as he looked down at her out of the corner of his eye. She snorted a little laugh of amusement. Sherlock was surprised by this, warily looking at her still from the corner of his eye, but having turned his head slightly more in her direction.

“It was amazing to watch, he didn’t have a clue you’d lifted it and then you proceeded to have a fake phone call on his own phone.”

“Yes, but not actually that impressive. Nobody ever notices that because all phones look the same these days, only the slightest variations in size and colour.” He had fully turned to her now.

“Fair enough, but how did you unlock it so effortlessly?”

“Care for an example?”

“Sure.”

Without pause he dug his long-fingered hand into her handbag, sitting between them and retrieved her phone. He was surprised not to have received a rebuttal for doing so, unlike when he did the same to Mrs Hudson, but on looking at her she just shrugged her shoulders and glanced back pointedly to the phone in his hand as a clear sign to get on with it. He looks at the screen for a second, altering the angle slightly before dragging one long digit over the screen and placing it down on the table unlocked between them.

“Brilliant, how?” she asked smiling up at him.

“Simple. Every time you touch your finger to the touch screen, oils on your fingertips leave a trail. When people scroll up and down they generally use their thumb to the side of the screen, and generally jab at things to click on options leaving single oval prints. Smear marks in the middle of the screen reveal the unlock pattern. You can tell where the pattern begins as this is the area with the highest deposit.” He shrugged at the end of this fast-paced monologue as if this was nothing.

“It’s so bloody obvious now you’ve said it. I feel stupid for reacting like it was a magic trick.”  Sherlock just gave another small shrug of his shoulders in response. There was a slight pause before she asked another question.

“How did you know about the picture though?”

“Oh, that was a lucky coincidence really.” He said with his first grin in the conversation.

“Ok. How?” She asked.

“People are lost without their phones, they do everything on them. People rarely leave a phone behind, they carry it everywhere with them. It perfectly documents their live. But people get lax with them, think that because its password protected and is always on their person, people will never be able to access their secrets. Photos first, the most innocuously titled album is where people hide the things they don’t want people to see. I found the picture of a naked woman hiding her face with her left hand. It was clearly his friend’s wife. Less than two minutes with his phone and I had got his secret out of it.”

 

“How did you know it was the friend’s wife?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Um… nooo”

“Seriously? Ok, the picture is of the torso and head of a woman, naked. Her left hand covers her face, but you can clearly see she is laughing. On the bedside table is a picture of a family but she is not the wife, however he is the husband in the picture. The laughing tells you it’s consensual, the left hand tells you the rest.”

“She’s married. But how do you know it was the friend’s wife?”

_Good she picked up on that._

“They had matching inscribed wedding bands.”

“Brilliant. You noticed the inscription on a wedding band and linked the two within five minutes.”

“Three minutes, fifty two seconds.” He corrected trying to appear nonchalant.

 

“Wanna’ swap phones see what we can tell about each other from them.” she joked.

“Far too many crime scene photos on my phone for your tastes I’d imagine.” He said looking at her with a wry grin.

“Oh YES. We definitely have to swap now.” She said as she swiped into her photos and presented Sherlock with a photo of a blunt force trauma wound on a male head.”

Sherlock was momentarily stunned, “You’re a police officer?”

“NO”

Sherlock flicked through a few more. “Serial killer with multiple modus operandi? “ he asked in jest. _It was clear from the professional lighting, and the focus on the wound rather that the whole scene that this wasn’t the case._

“Look closer”

He flicked back to the first photo. _The wound size and force required to cause that damage did not match the blood splatter surrounding it. So the body had been moved and the crime scene staged…STAGED! Perfect make-up, of course._

“You are a makeup artist!”

“Yep and I specialise in wounds. Please let me see some pictures.” She plead, hands grasped together in front of her in excitement as Sherlock unlocked his phone.

 

Greg nudges John in the side ten minutes later and nods in the direction of Sherlock and Emily still absorbed in one another’s phones and chatting back and forth between each other, asking questions. “I think he’s made a new friend.”

John raises his eyebrows and nodded slightly in acknowledgement before grinning and tapping the DVD case face down on the table in front of him. “Make him watch Annie another night then?”

“Yeah, when he’s been a particularly annoying bastard?”

“Next week then!”


	2. Useful friend

John stepped out of the cab and staggered to the door with half the shopping bags before going back for the remainder. Rather than struggle to open the kitchen door, he walks through the open door to the living room before dropping them all on the sofa which is luckily free of a gangly detective git.

***<<<x>>>***

 

After two and a half straight weeks of case after case, they had concluded the last one yesterday morning and come back to the flat to crash. Having woken at three in the afternoon he’d found an email about a possible locum job in Finchley the next day and had accepted it. Now starving he’d padded downstairs to make something to eat.

Opening the fridge without thinking he’d quickly closed it then stood frozen to the spot with his head and shoulders as far as he could get them from the fridge. _‘Yeah, leaving half-finished experiments on toes in various types of acid in a fridge untouched for two and a half weeks did not make the fridge look or smell like a place you would be happy to eat out of.’_

He scrubbed through a 6-week-old shopping list written on the magnetic board attached to the fridge with the fleshy part of his palm. Whilst doing this he was also was searching through the nearby drawer for one of the twenty or so markers that Sherlock kept pulling out of the pockets of his Belstaff like rabbits after each trip to an incident room.

After having written ‘CLEAN THE FRIDGE SHERLOCK. DIRTY FRIDGE=NO MILK. NO MILK=NO TEA!!!!!” He’d put the pen back in the drawer, filled the kettle, set it to boil and popped into the hall. Pulling some sachets of UHT milk out of his jacket pocket he’d used these emergency rations to make himself a cup of coffee. He’d grabbed a packet of crisps from the cupboard and liberated a few of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits that she had delivered while they were sleeping, before he went back upstairs.

***<<<x>>>***

 

John had done a proper food shop after his shift. Expecting that the very real threat of no tea; which a non-case engrossed Sherlock drank a lot of, would have been enough to make Sherlock clean the fridge and remove all the remains to Bart’s for safe destruction. He had eaten far too much take away over the last few months and the healthy eating posters plastered on practically every wall in todays GP surgery had guilted him into trying to practice what he preached to patient after patient. Pulling out the bag that had the fridge items, including milk from the pile on the sofa he turned towards the kitchen.

A movement from the open bathroom door and a faint metallic clink distracted me originally from the kitchen floor. Not for long though, the collapsed body on the floor in a pool of blood, knife sticking from the right hypochondriac region of Sherlocks abdomen soon distracted me. My hands clenched as the adrenaline hit, bag grasped firmly in my hand as I took one step forward. I was distracted once more by a flash of silver and a face disappearing into the bathroom, but they weren’t quite quick enough this time. I continued towards Sherlock stepping over his prostrate body and opening the fridge door. Putting the contents of the bag away one handed as I dug the phone out of my pocket and selected a number from the address book.

“Hey Mycroft Love”………”No, you don’t need to worry. He’s finally dead.”………”Stabbed” He peered over the body of his friend ”Looks like he hit his head quite badly on the way down as well.”……..”Yeah, I know all the wasted effort we went to finding poisons even he, with fifty odd books on the subject, couldn’t detect and some disgruntled small time crook probably took him down.”……..”Yeah course I can come home now darling, gi’me a few weeks and I’ll be back in the love nest with you and your giant cock.”

A spluttering behind him was what finally broke John’s act. Joy written across his face and reflected in his tone of voice he spoke with his back still to his friend. “Is this game over for now Sherlock? I’ll make tea for the three of us, shall I?” He turned to find Sherlock still flat on his back, eyes rapidly blinking. John leaned around the fridge and called out “How do you take your tea Emily?” and watched as a slightly sheepish Emily walked out of the bathroom.

 

“Milk no sugar please.” She walked into the room, pausing as she came to Sherlock still laying on the floor. He had however stopped blinking.

John started talking into the phone again, clasping the phone to his ear with his good shoulder as he relayed bags from the sofa to a kitchen table that was surprisingly clear for once. “Sorry ‘bout that Greg. Came home to find the great git, stabbed to death on the floor with a little help from our new favourite makeup artist.” She looked at him sheepishly and he just smiled and winked at her. “Decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.”

“Alright, highlight of my day to be honest. Would pay to have seen his reaction though.”

“I’m sure Mycroft’s got it on CCTV feed. I’ll ask him to send it to us both.”

“Ta mate” Greg said chuckling. “Got to get back to the grindstone.”

“Alright, Thanks again. Pint Thursday?”

“Absolutely, I’ll let you know what time. Bye”

“Bye mate.”

John had finished pouring three cups of tea by the time he hung up and was just putting sugar into one of them when Emily asked “Is he ok?”

“What?” John asked looking back over his shoulder. “Oh yeah, No he’s fine. In his mind palace is all.”

“His what?”

“Ask him later, he’ll love that.”

Safe in the knowledge that he was alright, if not still slightly confused, she sidled around Sherlock to join John in the living room and sat in the leather chair opposite him.

“How did you know?” She asked blowing on tea that was still too hot to drink.

John pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen and Sherlock “That’s what he’s trying to work out. Let’s not ruin the puzzle for him. Plus, its keeping him quiet, which on a day without a case or a gory experiment to do is a bloody miracle.”

 

Five minutes later the tea had cooled enough for them both to have made some headway through their own mug whilst chatting. Within seven seconds Sherlock leapt from the kitchen floor, grasped the mug waiting for him on the kitchen table, strode into the living room, grabbed a desk chair from the desk, placed it, back towards the fireplace, slap bang between each of the armchairs and sat himself on it. His long legs were spread so his knees were either side of the chair back. He took three large gulps from the mug in his hand before he started talking.

“Her perfume.”

“No”

“No?” Sherlock scrutinised him mouth pursed and a deep valley between each bushy eyebrow, trying to see if he was telling the truth.

John used to this by now, just stared blankly back at him.

“But you knew she was here?” Questioned Sherlock, full attention still on John as Emily looked on rapt.

“Not straight away.”

“When did you work it out?”

“First step into the kitchen.”

“Something was wrong with the staging?”

“Sort of”

“Sort of? Elaborate!” Sherlock commanded.

“You don’t like clues, normally.”

“It’s not a clue, your answer was just insufficient.” The grin John was trying to suppress was not missed by Sherlock whose brow knitted even more than John thought was possible.

“Everything looked real.”

“Ah so one of the other senses.”

He closed his eyes for a few seconds before they shot back open again. “Not an unexpected scent, but the lack of one you would expect.”

“Yeah, you know” he says pointing at himself “GP, army medic, fool who attends bloody crime scenes with you. I know what blood smells like.”

“Damn!” Exclaimed Sherlock leaping up from the chair.

“Also, while we’re at it I could see your pulse, in your neck, slightly raised. Not at all what you would expect with that amount of blood loss. Oh, and you weren’t wearing one of your fancy dressing gowns with your pyjamas like you always do, I assume as you didn’t want to ruin it”

Sherlock who had flung himself on the sofa by this point. Stared at him mouth a puckered straight line of discontent and turned his body away. It wasn’t at all as dramatic as usual due without the dressing gown flaring out behind him.

***<<<x>>>***

 

John walked Emily down the stairs when she left. As they said bye at the door she asked. “You saw me, didn’t you? That’s how you knew?”

John grinned cheekily, eyes lighting up in mirth “Yup, absolutely. But I’m not telling him that.”

“Your secrets safe with me.” she said as she walked out the door with her own grin on her face.

John’s mobile pinged as he closed the door. Pulling it out of his trouser pocket he was delighted when he looked at the notification.

New Message (unknown number)- video file-//Dead Sherlock

John practically skipped up the stairs in glee. _God, I hope it has sound. I’ll be able to use this as leverage for years._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think that at this point Sherlock has a plan for Reichenbach, however the things that he learns come into play when he realises Moriarty's plan. He uses what he learnt as a way to convince John of his death.

**Author's Note:**

> I received a comment on my only finished story last week. While I appreciate all comments, from the lovely ones that thank you for writing something, to the ones that offer up constructive criticism and identifying errors that you have completely missed, this one was just what I needed. That person had gone to the effort of telling me what in particular it was that they enjoyed about it, and it was one of the things that I strive to do when writing, try to make the character true to the portrayal in the BBC show.
> 
> The next morning I was having one of those half awake dreams that you have. You know, the ones where you can structure your thoughts a bit more. This story is the product of that. 
> 
> I honestly think I was only dreaming about Sherlock because of the comment I had read the day before. So if you enjoy reading this at all you can send some thanks to the lovely person who left me that comment.


End file.
